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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23581141">Untangling</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epiphanaea/pseuds/epiphanaea'>epiphanaea (Epiphanaea)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, F/M, Missing Scene, Tooth-Rotting Fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:14:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,716</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23581141</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epiphanaea/pseuds/epiphanaea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation of chapter 32 of 'A Crown of Swords,' because canon robbed us.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Nynaeve al'Meara/Lan Mandragoran</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Untangling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lan did find a comb – a grubby-looking wooden thing with half its teeth missing that Nynaeve knew was going to pull half her hair out, but better than nothing. She smiled at him as brightly as she could with her stomach trying to climb up her throat. Her head was starting to throb.</p><p>He ducked his head to her. There was the faintest quirk to his lips, but the rest of his face remained utterly grim.</p><p>Her throat tightened, and she turned away quickly so he wouldn't see the anguish on her own face. He was suffering, and she didn't know how to fix it. And it could be fixed, she was certain – this was no ordinary grief that he endured, though he must feel that too. This was injury; the bond had been planted deep in his mind and torn out by the root.</p><p>She winced at the mental image, and tried to focus on removing the opals from her braid. Not on the thought of Lan torn and bleeding from invisible wounds. Not on the spasming of her already-empty stomach. Not on the stains to her dress or the sour, briny smell that she realized was not entirely the river outside; some of it was her, the smell of the river soaked into her hair and her dress. Flows of air could only do so much, without the aid of soap.</p><p>The opal pins were so thoroughly caught up in tangles she might as well have tied her hair round them on purpose. There was nothing for it; she just started yanking.</p><p>It was oddly satisfying, really. Maybe violence never solved anything, but in small, measured amounts, it could be quite soothing.</p><p>She was going to face Nesta green-faced in a splotchy, wrinkled dress with a slattern's hair and all the poise of a man three days drunk. And smelling little better. And Lan was going to be there to see it all, and hear of the terrible bargain they'd made, and -</p><p>- and she had all the opals out and her hands were shaking on the ribbon at the end of her braid. Some of it was the swaying of the boat; most of it, she had to admit, if only to herself, was not.</p><p>She was going to take her hair down, in front of Lan. He'd never seen it unbraided. If she'd had her way, no man would have seen it unbraided since the first day the Women's Circle had allowed her to plait it – she'd been forced to wear it loose on an unfortunate number of occasions, but that had always been of necessity, to avoid drawing attention or to aid a disguise. This was different.</p><p>This was something she'd always imagined occurring only on their wedding night.</p><p>Well, it was to be their wedding <em>day, </em>if she had any say in the matter. Close enough.</p><p>Now if only her dratted hair would cooperate. How could it have managed to get so tangled in a braid? She took a certain pride in her hair, long and smooth and, when loose, nearly to her hips. It was none of those things now.</p><p>If she was going to feel like weeping about anything, it ought to be over the men who had died today, not her bloody <em>hair. </em>She would not be so vain, so self-absorbed – she would not be!</p><p>It took great effort not to rip the comb through her hair; she knew very well that would only make it worse.</p><p>Men had died today. <em>She </em>had nearly died today. Lan was going to <em>die</em> unless she found a way to heal him – or unless she could give him reason enough to stay alive long enough to heal naturally. He needed her strength and she was falling to pieces over -</p><p>“The other sisters spoke of you,” Lan said, behind her, “like you were something out of legend.”</p><p>Nynaeve's hands still, and she turned, slowly.</p><p>“A legend they wanted to throttle,” he added, with a small smile – was there the faintest hint of warmth in his eyes, or did she just want there to be? “But a legend, none the less. You healed Stilling.”</p><p>“It was -” She had to swallow. “It wasn't so complicated to mend, really, once I could see what was broken. And the first thing they did was start talking about how they could do it better!”</p><p>His smile widened. “Of course they did; you shamed them all. They had to reclaim their pride somehow.”</p><p>She hadn't thought of it like that.</p><p>“Light, Nynaeve, I was so proud when I heard that. Not surprised at all, but so proud.”</p><p>And that did it; her hands were letting go of her ratty half-undone braid so that she could wrap her arms around herself, and she was sobbing.</p><p>He was across the room in two strides, taking her in his arms. She buried her face in his chest; now she was going to get tear stains on his coat, so they could <em>both </em> be thoroughly disreputable before the bloody Mistress of the Ships to the bloody flaming Atha'an Miere, burn them all. Burn <em>everything.</em></p><p>
  <em>I healed Stilling and I captured Moghedien and saved a whole ship full of refugees and one of the heroes of the Horn was ripped out of her place in the Pattern because of me so I had to let her shoot arrows at me in a menagerie and you weren't there for any of it!</em>
</p><p>“I didn't know where you were or if you were safe or even if you were alive,” Nynaeve bawled, thumping a fist against his chest as well as she could, with him holding her. “I tried to tell myself I'd know if anything happened to you, but I didn't <em>know</em>, not really.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>mashiara </em>-”</p><p>“Don't call me that!” she snapped, and thumped him harder. “I'm not lost, I'm right bloody here!” She sucked in a shuddering, sobbing breath, horrified at the sounds she was making, the indignity of it, but unable to stop. “I'm here, and you're here, and we're going to -” Another sob caught her; one of his hands raised to cradle her head, while the other made warm, soothing circles at the small of her back. For long minutes that were somehow both the most miserable and the most wonderful of her life, she just cried.</p><p>Finally Nynaeve stepped back, sniffling and scrubbing at her eyes. His hands lingered at the curve of her jaw and at her waist before he leg her go. She hardly dared to look at him, but that wouldn't do.</p><p>Well, his eyes weren't cold; he looked anguished. He looked like a drowning man looks at land.</p><p>Her unhappy stomach made itself remembered, alongside an ache in her lungs. <em>Don't think of drowning. Pull yourself together!</em></p><p>“You're proud of me?” she asked. That wasn't what she'd meant to say at all!</p><p>“More than I can say,” Lan said. “I would be just for who you are, even if you didn't insist on working miracles.”</p><p>She was smiling like a great buffoon, and sniffling again. Her stomach sloshed, her head felt stuffed with wool and about to burst, and . . . <em>and he was proud of her.</em></p><p>His hand came back to her face, his thumb tracing the corner of her smiling lips. Her stomach flipped over for entirely different reasons. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, and let herself feel; oh, but it was unbearably sweet.</p><p>If he could so undo her with such an innocent touch -</p><p>No, they were not married yet, they had to be approaching the Sea Folk ship soon, and she still looked like a drowned rat. <em>You are Aes Sedai, and you have a task in front of you, an important one. Light, the fate of the world might depend on this and here you are wishing you could bed your betrothed before the wedding like some shameless, witless girl! </em>Nynaeve made herself step out of his reach.</p><p>“I need to make myself presentable,” she told him, gesturing with the comb; the regret plain in her voice made her flush. “I can't represent the White Tower looking like this.”</p><p>He plucked the comb out of her hand.</p><p>She opened her mouth to protest, but then he gathered her hair in the other hand. “Yes, Aes Sedai,” he said, with entirely too much warmth for such proper words.</p><p>“That wasn't – I meant -” But he was working the comb through the tangles with a look of fierce concentration. He wasn't very good at it, really, it would take him ages that they didn't have, but . . . but it was <em>Lan combing her hair</em>. The Creator was testing her.</p><p>“I do appreciate the thought,” Nynaeve made herself say, “but I can do that much more quickly.”</p><p>“There is no custom of betrothal rings in the Two Rivers,” Lan said, voice mild and eyes still intent on her hair. “You court with flowers. Moiraine and I learned all we could of the region before we came, so as to stand out as little as possible.”</p><p>“You stood out like swans among turkeys,” Nynaeve said, heart thumping. “Lan, I -”</p><p>“And I won't marry you because you order me to it.”</p><p>She was too wrung out to get this angry again, she was going to be sick. She was going to vomit all over him and the bloody man would bloody well deserve it! “Lan Mandragoran -!”</p><p>“But I will marry you,” he went on, finally meeting her eyes, “to see you smile that way again. I never wanted to make you weep, and I thought I could keep you from it by letting you go, but you won't ever let me, will you? You'll grieve no matter what I do, Light forgive me, and I've been a fool not to see that. So I will give you as much joy as I can for as long as I can, and count myself the most honored of men to do so, if you will have me.”</p><p>“If I'll – you – you bloody -” And Nynaeve was flinging her arms around his neck, propriety be burned, the fate of the bloody world be burned, it could wait a moment while she kissed the man who was going to be her husband.</p>
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